


Leashed

by chelonianmobile



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Breathplay, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fisting, Genderswap, Humiliation, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Kink Meme, Maledom, POV Second Person, Power Play, Size Difference, Small Dom/Big Sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme deanon. His Imperious Condescension reminds the Grand Highblood who's in charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leashed

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkmeme request for dubcon powerplay between a genderbent Condesce and Highblood. Sharp contrast to my usual favoured interpretation of them as doing horrifying things to other people while being sickeningly mushy with each other, but the prompt grabbed me. Hope I did it justice. Also, disclaimer; this is fiction, don't treat people this way for real unless they ask you to, these characters are not real humans so it's okay for them.

He has to kneel up on your chair to reach. It would be funny if it wasn't you bent over the motherfucking desk. The waistband of your half-removed pants is hanging around mid-thigh, your shirt shoved up to your neck. He turned his rings inward and the gems left scratches on your breasts. Fucker. Now one of his hands is yanking your horn back, the other slithering over the purple-flushed flesh between your legs. You're dripping on the floor.

"Damn, Kurlyz, I got my own little ocean here."

Your biceps are about as wide around as his waist. You could snap the pinkblood ponce in half, if you wanted. More trouble than it's worth. The slight webbing between his icy fingers catches on your skin, and you shiver. There's a clatter as he shoves a bucket between your feet. Two fingers inside now; his hands are small, and you snicker as you recall that his bulge isn't much better, so the prep's not much use, but then he flexes his hand and you shudder as claws tear hot lines of pain through you. _"Fuck!"_ you gasp, and flinch again as he takes it for an instruction and his fingers jab roughly in and out. You shift your hips just enough to get the angle right, and he doesn't object. Damn, that's a motherfucking miracle right there. Almost worth putting up with His Imperious Fuckheadedness.

His entire hand works in almost before you notice, and an undignified almost-wail leaves your throat as he spreads his fingers, claws and rings probably cutting you up and certainly hurting like hell. He laughs. "Aww. Big bad warlady can't take a little pain."

"Th-that was nothing," you groan through gritted fangs. You've taken wounds from every weapon from knife to whip to club to rifle, but this is different.

"Mm, I guess you wouldn't notice," he says smugly, twisting his arm and shoving in further. "Fuck, I could fly the whole glubbin' battleship through here. You use those fuckin' clubs of yours for somefin you ain't told me, Lyz?"

"Get on with it before I die of motherfucking boredom, _Minnoh,"_ you hiss, and he slaps your rump with his free hand. Your rumble globes are squeezed uncomfortably against the desk as you jerk forward. His hand slides out of you and you hear rustling cloth and a slick wet sound. You try to turn and see what he's doing, but suddenly his hand is shoving inside you again and his bulge, lubricated with genetic material from both of you, is pushing in somewhere else. You hiss sharply between your teeth and glare at him.

"Only fuckin' way either of us will even notice I'm here, with that black hole you call a nook," he pants, licking a trickle of pink sweat off his lip.

"You want tighter, go play with your Helmsmaid," you snap. It was a mistake. His hair coils around your neck and pulls tight, yanking your head back at a painful angle and leaving your eyes bulging and your tongue hanging out as you struggle for air. Your claws leave deep scratches in the desk as your hands scrabble wildly.

"What was that, Lyz?"

"I'm sorry, Your Imper-... Imperiousss ... Condescension," you splutter, and he loosens the grip.

"Better." His free hand rakes over your back and tangles in your own mass of hair. "Maybe I'll get you a real collar. You'd look so fuckin' sweet in pink. Only fair, everyone already calls you the Emperor's rabid bitch."

You clench your muscles, and roll your hips; he gasps and almost falls forward onto you, not having expected you to respond at all. You're fairly sure there's blood in the bucket now, along with the other fluids now flowing steadily, but the pain has faded. Purplebloods heal fast.

Blackrom with the Emperor is a difficult thing. Ideally, kismeses should be equals or close in rank, but that's impossible for him. The nearest he has is you. If he truly crossed a line you could physically prevent him, but his rank gives him the ability to make you suffer if you cross a line for him. It's a careful balance for both of you. You would like to keep your own high rank, and he would like to keep his limbs.

He comes before you, with an unsurprisingly feminine cry, and out of the corner of your eye you see him snarling at you, daring you to laugh. You won't, in front of him, but he catches the twitch of your lip. He pulls out, fuschia flowing down over your legs, and leans down. His hand is still inside, and he starts working his fingers in earnest, his tongue assisting. Your knees go weak; say what you want about him, he knows what he's doing. You prop yourself on the desk, a rumbling growl swelling in your chest, and suddenly he sinks his needle-like teeth into your thigh and you come with a roar drowning out the splashing as your mingled fluids fill the bucket.

You're still breathing heavily as you straighten up and yank your pants back up, but before he can demand it, you grab his wet hand and start to lick it clean. He nods in terse approval, and you smirk a little. You can play his games. He looks like he wants to tell you to lick his bulge clean too, but he decides not to push his luck. Good for him, if he had you may well have damned the consequences and bitten it off. He settles for mopping himself up with a handkerchief and dropping it in the bucket when he's done. He captchalogues the bucket for later disposal. You aren't in the mood for more pain, so you refrain from asking sarcastically if he's planning to drink it.

Once he's fully-dressed and looking as sleek as ever, in contrast to the mess he's made of you, he ruffles your hair, as if you really were his pet barkbeast, and you resist the urge to bite him like one. "Well, I think I got my point across, yeah, girl?"

"Yes, _sir,"_ you say, as sourly as you dare. His grip tightens on your hornbase until it hurts; it's much better than the patronising petting.

"Enough of that tone, I'm the Imperious Condescension around here, bitch."

"Yes, Your Imperious Condescension, sir."

He drops your horn and dusts off his hands, and without another word he leaves.

Your body is scratched and bruised, your clothes are soaked and sticky, and your own colour has mixed with his to form seadweller-violet stains on the floor. You ignore those. Nobody will get close enough to tell that they aren't blood. You sit, awkwardly, still sore, and plot the emperor's demise.


End file.
